


Season 1 Episode 11 - Rôti

by PaleGlimmer



Series: Hannibal Smut Companion [11]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bestiality, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Canonical Rape/Non-con, Crying, Depression, Episode Related, Fear, Hallucinations, HannibalGoreFest, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Madness, Mental Anguish, Nightmares, Non-Human Hannibal Lecter, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season 1, Temporary Character Death, horny blob from hell, monster fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-11-01 01:59:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaleGlimmer/pseuds/PaleGlimmer
Summary: Will’s nightmares are getting worse, way worse. Hannibal appears in them to save him - or not, ouch. Bloody non-con sexual shenanigans with smoke-sneky-tentacle-monster ensue.





	Season 1 Episode 11 - Rôti

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my project Hannibal Smut Companion: a little piece of smut set in/around each episode. Every TV episode resets events/characters.
> 
> Kudos and comments are life!
> 
> Want to stay updated? Subscribe to the SERIES: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1324328
> 
> (I have a seasonal job so it really took me forever... but tags are wild! CHECK THE TAGS! #HannibalGoreFest for the win 👌)

Will opens his eyes: the wave raises - pale and icy - above the ocean, above the totem pole made of rotten corpses. It raises higher and higher until it obscures the sun. Possibly it devours the sun, because the sun is a good thing, and Will knows that good things cannot be. They simply cannot. The concept of _good thing_ seems entirely foreign by now, Will can’t figure out where he learned of that. Stories from the elders? Myth? Maybe good things do exist, somewhere, beyond the infinite void where Will’s life unravels, just not for him. Never for him. 

Will isn’t afraid because fear is a change of state: it’s the menace of losing something precious. Fear is the change you fight against. But when you have nothing, and you are no one, and this extend to a past you don’t remember and a future that you know doesn’t exist, then, there is no fear. There is also no life. Life is born, it flourishes, it rots. It changes. Life somehow always moves forward, along the singular vector of passing time. In this liminal space there is nothing of that. What remains for Will, in Will, of Will, is constant anguish. A gray feeling for a gray half existence. Half awake, fully nightmarish, with no way to say which is which.

Will opens his eyes: this was a place he used to love, he remembers as much. His home, he had a place to call home, once. Or maybe it was just a good, brief pleasant dream that happened upon him by mistake, wrongly addressed his way by a distracted God. The water is rising, cold and implacable, but he cannot move from his bed. He tries, he always tries, despite the fact that he knows very well how useless that is. His skin is so heated that vapor rises from his body when he’s submerged by the water. Then, thanks for small mercy, he’s one with water, he’s no more, dissolved, liquid mixed with liquid, indistinguishable nothingness. 

Will wanders in this nothingness animated by shadows, sometimes he hears voices too. They belong to people he used to relate to, when he was human among humans. He remembers Jack Crawford had an imposing voice, it still reaches him from time to time, though the words are garbled and do not make any sense. Like nothing makes sense. He remembers the grace of Alana Bloom, her delicate hands, her transparent eyes. He has lost her for good and it was his fault, he wasn’t good enough for her. He’s not good enough for anyone nor anything. He’s not good enough at staying sane, not good enough at living.

Will opens his eyes: he’s surrounded by dozens of bleached antlers, they are everywhere, on the walls, on the ceiling. Trophies of successful hunts, the glory of a great deadly hunter. He feels like he’s prey, a weak, easy quarry. Not really of any value, undesirable even. Garret Jacob Hobbs is beside him, leaning against the wall, looking at him with his blind dead eyes and the gut-wrenching smirk on his lips. Garret talks to him, sometimes. Other times he just stands there. It’s interesting that he always reeks of death and rotten meat. He must be part of the nightmare - he must be, Will killed him, right? - and still his brain works overtime to give him a body, a face and a smell too. That’s overkill.

Will turns the other way but Hobbs is always right in front of him. Will won’t close his eyes, admit defeat so easily. Dignity is a bit old-fashioned and useless in a land made of shadows and nightmares but Will tries, poor soul, he always tries. What more do you want from me, Will thinks, comforted by the fact that since the man is in his head at least there’s no need to make the effort to speak. Hobbs just grins in his face, teeth rotting away, worms falling from his bluish lips, then he grabs Will and lifts him from the ground with impossible strong hands, and seemingly without any effort, throws the man against the biggest, sharpest set of antlers as if he were a weightless doll. The nightmare is not merciful: Will feels the real life, cruel, acute pain corresponding to the impossible thing that just happened to him. He feels the agony of the skin breaking, the flesh being pierced, the explosive burn of pain, the wetness of the blood flowing out, for each of the multiple wounds. He spurts a mouthful of blood, the metallic taste and the sticky textures unhelpfully provided by his sick brain. He’s in the exact same position Marissa Schurr was found in, impaled and helpless, not touching the ground with his feet, his arms open to the side, his limbs and torso pierced in multiple places by the sharp points. A pinned butterfly waiting to die. A suffering to be ogled at. A pleasure for whom, though? There’s no one in the desolation of his mind, only the cruel monsters of his own making. He doesn’t know who they’ve taken after, he never was one for staged drama.

Will opens his eyes: he’s no longer crucified over the antlers, though the pain in his body where the wounds are has not abated, he can still feel the sharp, pulsing ache of his injuries. He’s in a white room, laying on his back over a bed covered with a white bedspread. His wounds are bleeding all over and tainting the fabric around him. The red stains look like wings on the snow wide surface, they expands, slowly, endlessly, until the blood has soaked the fabric and drips on the floor, the splashy sound of every single drop falling on the ground impossibly clear in Will’s ears. This place is so different from everything else his mind has thrown at him recently. Maybe he’s getting better. Maybe the desolation has an end. There’s someone by his side, and though he can’t see his face, he recognizes the voice. He would recognize that voice everywhere. It’s Hannibal. He’s so relieved at hearing Hannibal’s voice that his eyes well up. His friend, his tether, his paddle. If Hannibal is here, then there’s hope for Will. Maybe he’s getting better, maybe things will get better. Maybe reality will be within Will’s grasp again, soon. Hannibal speaks to him, and though the words don’t make it to him, the sound of his voice reassures him, almost lolling him to sleep. 

Will tries to speak to Hannibal, to thank him, to ask him something, anything, just to make this moment more real then the rest, to hang in there as long as possible. But his throat is too tight and his tongue too heavy. Hannibal is tending to the wounds on Will’s naked body with gentle hands, his movements slow and tender. Loving, Will is tempted to say. For the first time in the unending forever he’s been spending in this barren land, Will feels something akin to hopefulness. This is, of course, a terrible mistake. He enjoys that for an unmeasurable amount of time before something in the air shifts, a change takes place swiftly. Hannibal’s hands keep moving over Will’s body, but this is no longer a healing touch. Fingers play with the sore flesh of his open wounds, they trace the frayed margins then dive deep in, inside his pained body. They push and pull and squeeze and rearrange, merciless, relentless, against tender flesh and pulsing organs. Will screams and screams against this violation of his body, voice high and trembling, until his throat is sore and raw and his scream turns into pitiful wailing and then into silence and all Will can do is breath and sob, filled with disgust and shame. Hannibal’s voice keeps talking to Will in a strange language, but there’s nothing reassuring in his tone anymore, it’s a litany of harsh consonants and clicks and creaks - sounds that cannot be born in a human mouth. They reverberate in the room, turning into a symphony of horror and ancient evil, echoing long after Will has stopped screaming. The respite from hell lasted so little, but enough for Will to miss it, to suffer losing it, to drown in fear of new unspeakable horrors to come. 

Will opens his eyes: the room now is barely lit, darkness impending over his limp, ravaged body. He’s bare-naked now and something disgusting and inhuman is slithering over his skin. It’s slimy, cold, with eyes red and fiery like burning coals, the only source of light in the room. The solid weight of the demonic creature crawling over him pushes him flat on his back, his arms and legs pinned down with bruising force. Not that Will has in him any fight to rebel anymore, his breathing hitches and he sobs, tears rolling down his eyes, wetting his cheeks, ending their salty path in his curls plastered with sweat and blood. A warm, nasty tongue licks the wounds already ravaged by the hands, one after the other, plump lips sucking the blood-dripping flesh with lewd, slobbering sounds. Impossibly sharp, uneven teeth rip the skin from Will’s chest and sounds of enthusiastic, delighted chewing fills the room. The slimy thing hums with pleasure at every mouthful of Will’s flesh until a different kind of hunger strikes the beast. At the same time, Will knows what the monster wants from him now, and as horror rises the last shred of sanity slips from him. 

The creature shape-shifts to better fulfill its new wants: its body expands to cover Will’s trembling naked frame entirely, stringy appendages holding him cruelly around the wrists and the ankles, pushing his legs up and apart. The demonic thing once solid now turns into something more viscous: it adheres to Will’s skin like a casting of sweltering latex, every point of contact burning like lava. The thing forces its way inside Will, starting with the open wounds - Will uses the last of his strength to scream again, the most pitiful sound he has ever heard. Something adequately shaped and solid pushes against Will’s ass, his hole is easily ripped open; the thing, that now engulfs Will entirely and has lost any semblance of anything found in nature, pumps itself in and out of the lifeless body, rhythmically, methodically, coldly as a machine would. Will’s mind has shut down but his body still reacts to the mechanics of the deep, relentless fucking that he’s forced to take. The demonic thing targets Will’s prostate with single-mindedness, hits it from the inside like clockwork with just the right force, strokes his perineum, milks Will’s cock skillfully - Will’s body relents and his cock gives in to orgasms that shake his thin body like a leaf in the wind, until Will has no longer anything to give. Then the thing fills his nostrils and his mouth, rolls down his throat, pooling in his lungs, leaving no empty space inside Will’s ravaged body. 

There’s peace in the room finally, once Will stops breathing.

***

It’s dark here, but the chemical smell of the hospital room is unmistakable. A delicate hand holds his. Will seems to remember a time when delicate, beautiful things existed.

Will opens his eyes, too tired even to hope that this is not another nightmare.


End file.
